Last Wednesday’s installment of Criminal Minds, “A Right of Passage,” is a perfect example of Hollywood’s unending infatuation with liberal-progressive causes strained through a politically correct filter and served up just in time for the present administration’s anticipated new push for amnesty for illegal aliens.

A series of decapitations along the volatile border with Marxico prompts the Behavioral Analysis Unit to board their cool Gulfstream execujet and chase after this malefactor. Santa Muerte (The Saint of Death), a legendary figure among the locals, is reputed to be responsible, but our invariably secular FBI agents know better. Somebody’s killing members of a politically privileged ethnic group, and even at Mach 0.9 our heroes can’t get there fast enough.

Considering how chaotic the southern U.S. border is reported to be, the occasional murder should come as no surprise. But if it isn’t Santa Muerte, then who could it be? Senior Agent David Rossi (Joe Mantegna) opines that it probably isn’t the Minutemen because that would be bad PR for them.

Thanks for that insightful analysis, Agent Rossi: The Minutemen are constrained from murdering each and every illegal alien solely because it wouldn’t look good on the six o’clock news—patriotism, humanitarian impulses, Christian charity, and simple human decency don’t figure in their behavior at all. Rossi seems to be implying that if it weren’t for the watchdog media there’d be a dead body every ten yards or so along the border.

Could the killer(s) be one or more illegal aliens? You know, those saintly people who want nothing but a better life for themselves and their children, even if it means native-born Americans and legal aliens have to sacrifice their own aspirations, wealth, and sometimes their very lives to make room for them.

Of course not! The mere thought is repugnant, completely beyond the realm of possibility. You should scourge yourself mentally if not physically for even considering it—and the same considerations apply to the coyotes, those human smugglers who are striving to help the illegals fufill themselves. Shame on you, sir! Shame!

Well, then, could it be what most sensible folks would consider to be the most likely suspect, the local drug cartel overlord, or one or more of his minions? No, you idiot! The local wise Latina woman sheriff doesn’t think so. Why? Because it ain’t his style, man. When this narcotraficante slices people up, he does it in a certain way, just so, and these murders don’t fit his profile.

So, who is the culprit?

(WARNING: spoilers follow.) If you’ve ever seen any Hollywood movies or TV shows, you should spot him as soon as he appears on screen: It’s the sheriff’s deputy, you dolt! How could you possibly miss that? Don’t you know the routine by now? In any crime drama, the culprit of a deliberate and heinous murder may not be a member of any ethnic group except Caucasians; only they are capable of committing atrocities such as these.

Thus the killer is …
… a white …
… Southern …
… male …

… whose whiteness, Southernness, maleness, and drawl instantly betray him. Haven’t you read the Department of Homeland Security‘s report on homegrown terrorists yet? This guy fits the government’s profile to a ‘T’.

And why does he do these terrible things? He says this used to be a great country—his beloved homeland—but now it’s all gone away because of these . . . these . . . people. Thus, in a fit of nostalgia, he goes on a murder spree, presumably to restore his homeland to its previous whiteness, Southernness, greatness, and maleness, while simultaneously making it once more a safe place to speak with a drawl.

And there you have it: An episode dealing with a major border crisis that places the blame right where it belongs, at the feet of white law enforcement officials who in reality try—as nonviolently as possible—to stem the tide of what amounts to an invasion.

The message should be clear: As another liberal-progressive TV program kept telling us, Resistance is futile.

Moreover, when an episode is written by someone named Victor De Jesus, you could be forgiven for suspecting the writer might have little or no understanding of or sympathy for Plymouth Rock culture—and indeed might even entertain a certain antipathy for it.

All of which leads me to conclude that the real criminal minds in this production belong to the producers.